


What aisle are the happy hearts in?

by lalejandra



Category: Bandom, Pete Wentz and His Humans
Genre: Asexual Spectrum, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: "I think you're probably the least boring thing here," he finally says, and she's not a fuckingthing, but she's flattered anyway.
Relationships: Meagan Camper/Pete Wentz
Kudos: 6





	What aisle are the happy hearts in?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Meagan's twitter. Whatevs, whatevs.
> 
>   
> 

  


Dancing at this club is fucking boring. Meagan excuses herself from her group of friends and makes her way to the bar. Maybe tequila is going to improve this. Probably not, because she doesn't want to drink enough to get drunk, and that means she'll just get more annoyed, not less. She's leaning on the bar, trying to wave down the bartender, when a short guy with tall hair comes up to her. 

"You look like Tumblr," he says.

"I have no idea what that means," she tells him.

"Would it impress you if I could get the bartender's attention?" he asks. He's got these eyes that she thinks she could probably drown in, full of sadness even through the reflection of the pink neon of the club lights, the total opposite to the grin on his face. 

"Possibly." She slouches onto the bar and watches him get the attention of the bartender, who sees him and comes right over. He orders a Coke with cherry syrup and a lime, and she orders two tequila shots. "This club is boring for me and I drink. What's it like for you?"

He grins -- she doesn't know him, but she knows a totally fake smile when she sees it -- and shrugs. "Everything's boring. It's just a matter of getting through it, right?"

"If everything is boring, why are you talking to me?" she asks. He doesn't answer, doesn't answer, just watches her. When her tequila shots are arrive, he pays for them, then watches her lick salt and down them, suck on a lime. He doesn't seem to be watching her mouth, though -- he's staring at the freckles on her nose or something.

"I think you're probably the least boring thing here," he finally says, and she's not a fucking _thing_ , but she's flattered anyway.

*

They've only been out once -- twice if you count the club where they met, which she doesn't but he does; they haven't talked about it, but she knows he does. He's the kind of guy who does stuff like that, the kind of guy who keeps track and thinks everything is important.

So it's their second (third) date when she meets his kid. He tells her, "If my kid doesn't like you, this isn't going to work," and she gets that, sort of. The kid is cute and blond, which she was expecting, because she googled him after they met at the club, and felt stupid for not recognizing him.

The kid has the same eyes as his dad, the same sadness, but his smiles are all real, and he's in her lap by the end of the afternoon. His dad hasn't even kissed her yet.

*

Vegas is nice with him, everything first class and high-end, comped champagne for her and stacks and stacks of chips for him. ("They know I'll lose them all back, won't trade any in," he says, shrugging; she accepts another glass of champagne as he loses fifteen thousand dollars.) 

Their suite only has the one bed, and they sleep together -- but they still haven't had sex, and she wonders if she's doing something wrong. He likes to look at her, run one finger over her nose and around her ears. She lies still for it, lets him, watches him the whole time. She's in just her underwear the first night, no bra, and the twist of his mouth when he runs his finger over a nipple makes her turn onto her side, cover herself with an arm. 

"Can I just hold you for a while?" she asks, and it's the wrong thing to say because he moves away.

"You must think I'm so pathetic," he says, and slides off the bed, locks himself in the bathroom.

She scrubs her hands over her face. She didn't read a lot of the articles about him, but... enough. And her friends don't shut up about him, trying to get gossip under the guise of giving her "a head's up, Meagan, seriously, you should know this." But this is the first time she's seeing it. Really seeing it, what people say about him.

There's a full wet bar in their suite, and she is really tempted by the tequila, but she slides past it to knock on the bathroom door.

"I don't think you're pathetic," she says, keeping her voice low. She knows he can hear her -- the fan isn't on or anything. "I like you a lot. I want -- I want to give you what you need, but you have to tell me what that is. I'm gonna sleep on the couch, so you don't have to stay in the bathroom all night. Just..." She shuts her eyes and presses her forehead against the bathroom door. "I'm not other people, okay? Just remember that, please? I'm myself, not someone else."

She pulls on a T-shirt and tugs one of the blankets off the bed. The couch isn't comfortable, but she turns on the television and falls asleep to On Demand episodes of the X-Files. She wakes up to the blue glow of the TV and feeling like she can't breathe -- something is on her chest.

He's on her chest.

He's asleep on top of her, sprawled on her, blanket gone. She gropes for the blanket and pulls it over both of them, clicks off the television, and falls back asleep right away, her fingers tight on the nape of his neck, his breath hot on her skin. It's comfortable and comforting. 

When she wakes up again, he's on the floor, leaning against the couch, and he kisses her toes, and he orders breakfast, and it's nice. They go out and eat and party and dance, and make out in the elevator. He shuffles to the bed while she's brushing out her hair and says, "Will you? Hold me?"

They don't have sex, and she's pretty sure eventually that's gonna be annoying, but right now she kind of likes this better.

*

He sends her flowers. Orchids, sunflowers, baby's breath. And awesome pairs of sneakers that match ones she's seen in his closet, and bags that are her style, not his. He calls her "Meg" because he knows she likes it better than Meagan -- and sometimes "Megatron" or "Megalicious" and, once, "Megamix." He does girls' nights with her where they smear mud masks on each other and eat the cucumber that's supposed to go on their eyes.

She says to him, "You're the best girlfriend I've ever had," and it's a joke, but he beams. 

That night he spreads her legs and leers at her and giggles and says, "Please tell me you do this with all your girlfriends." 

She runs her fingers through his hair and tells him, "Only with my favorite ones. Only with the prettiest ones," and watches him eat her out until she has to drop her head back and gasp for breath.

He's hard when he's done, but he keeps his boxers on, and a pillow covering himself. She bites her lip.

"Can I kiss you?" she asks, and he nods, curling up next to her, letting her press him into the pillows. She rubs her thumb up and down his throat while they kiss. He moans into her mouth and arches under her fingers, and she feels like she's seeing something she shouldn't be, something even more private than all the other things she knows about him.

She pulls away and spreads her hand over his chest. "You are the prettiest," she tells him, dropping a tiny kiss on his mouth. "You're my favorite ever."

"You're my favorite too," he says in a whisper. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"It's working for me," she says. "If it stops working for me, are you going to be able to talk to me about it?"

"I don't know," he confesses, and hides his face in her neck.

"I guess we'll see," she says. She's sad that he's, like, plotting their breakup fights right now, but she's actually pretty sure that even if they're together for the next forty years, he'll never believe that she likes him and that he's wonderful.

*

Eight months in, she comes over and he's pretending to be a puppy. Or he _is_ a puppy. He's with his kid, and they're both barking, and the kid is _playing_ but he's _not_. He's not, and he licks her hand when she pets him and whines when she says, "What a good, beautiful puppy!" 

(Never boy. Never a good, beautiful boy. Never a pretty boy, just pretty. Never a nice boy, just nice. She doesn't think he's noticed, and she's never going to point it out.)

In bed, later, she says, "I like when you're a puppy, you're the best, naughtiest, cutest puppy," and he gets on top of her on his hands and knees, growls, giggles.

"Have you ever had a dog? When they go under your skirt, you're supposed to tell them they're bad and teach them manners," he tells her, and snaps his teeth at her neck. She arches up.

"I like naughty puppies," she says, and licks his face.

"Naughty puppies hump people's legs and piss on things," he says, licking her neck.

"I like naughty puppies," she repeats, like he asked a question. Because he did, even if he doesn't realize it. He rubs his dick against her hip when she arches up again. "Naughty puppies are the nicest puppies," she murmurs, while he humps against her and whines.

He growls when he comes, sinking his teeth into her chest and shaking his head a little. It hurts, but she likes it. She knows she'll like the mark tomorrow too, and so will he, even though he'll be embarrassed and worry that she's secretly mad.

It makes her chest hurt, how much he trusts her, even while he doesn't believe that anyone can ever love him.

  



End file.
